


Brotherhood

by awabubbles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Stitching, Angst with a Happy Ending, Come Inflation, Double Anal Penetration, Face-Fucking, Flashbacks, Gangbang, Hardcore, M/M, Masochism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Paddling, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Public Humiliation, Unrequited, Verbal Humiliation, Virginity Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-04-06 16:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19066117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awabubbles/pseuds/awabubbles
Summary: Sam joins a fraternity so he can be fucked by his 'brothers'—but all Sam really wants is his own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unrequited wincest that turns out to be less unrequited than Sam thought.
> 
> Unbeta'd so please forgive the typos.
> 
> Six parter that will updated whenever I finish each part. Tags to be added with every update.

 

_“That’s great, Sam. Congrats. You should go, for sure.”_

_Sam stands there holding his Stanford acceptance letter_ _—_ _scholarship, full-ride_ _—stunned at Dean’s response._ _He’d been terrified of what his brother was going to say all week. They’ve been joined at the hips since they were kids and here was Sam, leaving the family business. He expected Dean to be furious, repeating John’s old lines about hunting things and saving people. Or for Dean to be hurt, sealing off his emotions and drinking himself senseless behind Sam’s back._

_Instead, Dean seems genuinely happy to get rid of him._

_“A-are you sure?” Sam asks. He studies the acceptance letter for the hundredth time, just in case he’s missed the line that awards him a free six pack and a hot chick_ _—the only thing he can imagine his big brother smiling about. “Don’t you think Dad’s gonna freak?”_

_“He might. But you’re not showing it to him, you’re showing it to me,” Dean insists. “Besides, I think it’ll be good for you Sam. You know. Normal.”_

_Normal: safety, security, sleeping in the same bed every night, a life other than hunting—these are the things Sam has always pined for. But that’s not what Dean means. He means leaving for Stanford might cure his baby brother of being a sick freak._

_Sam winces. It’s another rejection in a long series of them. The final one. It was stupid of him to think this would change anything. Dean’s been turning into a mountain for over a year now: cold, distant, immovable. Ever since he found out his baby brother wanted to fuck him._

_“So...I guess I’m going to Stanford.” Sam dejectedly tucks the letter back into his bag. Dean has gone back to cleaning his gun, his silence a signal to leave but Sam ignores it._ _“I wonder what you’re going to do without me. You know, being such a pain in the ass?” he jokes with a weak smile._

_Dean doesn’t even look up. “You should stop thinking about me, for once,” he says. Not angry, but tired, and somehow that’s worse._

 

Six months and one thousand miles later at Stanford University and nothing has changed: Sam can’t stop thinking about Dean, no matter how hard he tries. He thinks about Dean’s emerald eyes during freshman orientation, Dean’s sun-kissed skin during class, and Dean’s achingly hard cock when he’s supposed to writing a six page paper on Comparative Politics.

Sam is sick; stupidly, disgustingly, incestuously in love with his own brother. Leaving was supposed to dull the ache, but the sunny skies of California have only made it worse. Sam is wracked with guilt, regret, an overwhelming desire to steal a car and run back home. But he can’t. His own father had told him as much. And Dean, well, Sam doesn’t think he could stomach the disappointment on his brother’s face either. Dean thinks Sam is out here getting better, that he’s fucking around. Dating. Moving on. It’s what Dean’s always pushed him to do, ever since that summer when everything changed.

 

_“When are you going to get a girlfriend?” Dean asks, leaning back onto a beat-up couch, thighs spread, beer loose in his hands. Casual, except not. It’s an interrogation and they both know it. His brother, prying: are you normal yet? are you right in the head?_

_“Dunno,” Sam evades. Dean sits in front of him, shirtless, sun-kissed skin thick with sweat. He’s desperate to drink in the sight but Dean’s gaze is a judgmental sun. Sam is forced to look away, staring at the floorboards between his beat up sneakers. It’s been a long summer. “We just got here, like, yesterday,” he finally replies._

_“We’ve been here a week,” Dean corrects. “And I’ve already fucked Shelly in the back of her pop’s van. Lindsay in the janitor’s closet.” Dean counts to three on his fingers. “Plus I got another one lined up tonight. See? Plenty of time to meet someone else.”_

_Sam’s face is blank despite the pain in his chest; bloody, raw. Dean makes an effort to overshare so that Sam knows all the women he’s been inside. It’s his way of keeping Sam in line. And a warning._

_“Hey don’t get me wrong,” Dean continues. “If dudes are your thing that’s cool too. I just want you to get out there, kiddo, play the field a little. It’d be...good for you.” Dean takes a sip of his beer, watching his brother carefully._

_Sam shakes his head, clenches his fists. Furious. Helpless. “It can’t just get fucked out of me,” he spits. “It doesn’t work like that.”_

_Dean tenses. His face walls off. He refuses to acknowledge Sam or the ugly, perverse thing breeding in his baby brother’s chest. Sickness. Not love. Taking a long draught of beer, Dean stands from the couch. “It helps,” he rebukes, before throwing the bottle in the trash._

 

That’s why Sam’s kneeling in a pool of alcohol inside the piss-soaked bathroom of Stanford’s most prestigious fraternity. For something, anything, to help.

Outside, hopeful pledges mingle. Like him, they’re vying for a limited number of bids. If a pledge gets a bid, they get a chance at joining the frat. Effectively orphaned, Sam is forced to find a new family, a new group of friends. That’s what fraternal brotherhood offers. That, and over a dozen people calling themselves ‘brother’ willing to fuck him.

“Open your mouth.”

Sam’s classmate Brady stands above him, holding out his fattened cock. Brady is a junior at Stanford. They share a poli sci class together. It was Brady who suggested Sam bid for a place at his frat. He's the Recruitment Chairman at Sigma Alpha Epsilon (ΣAE) so if Brady likes somebody they have a pretty good chance of getting into the frat. Sam takes him up on it, shows up at one of their parties during rush week where he proceeds to get drunk and allow Brady to lock them both into a single-stall bathroom at the back of the frat.

Brady is nothing like Dean. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and two parents with successful careers, the contrast couldn’t be starker. Dean wears second hand clothes and their dad’s beat up leather jacket; Brady wears Abercrombie and Fitch. Dean has a criminal record a mile long; Brady has a championship trophy from his high school's soccer team. Sam shouldn’t feel guilty, then, letting the upperclassman’s cock slide down his own throat. After all, this is what Dean had wanted him to do, wasn’t it?

“Good, just like that. Wanna fuck these pretty pornstar lips of yours," Brady murmurs.

The world sways a little, the Jungle Juice they’d served in little plastic cups goes straight to Sam's head. Rihanna’s “Don’t Stop the Music” bleeds through the door. Sam’s never sucked cock before, never had his face fucked, holding out on teenage fever dreams of his big brother pulling Sam towards his lap instead of away in disgust. Only dreams, though. This was reality: a boy Sam had known for little over a week stuffing the back of his throat until he couldn’t breathe. Too much all at once, Sam chokes on Brady’s cock, pushes his classmate away gasping for breath. A string of spit draws a line from Brady's tip to Sam’s red lips.

“First time?” Brady smiles, intrigued.

When Sam nods, his classmate tuts.

“Never would’ve guessed. You’re too pretty to be a virgin, Sam. Was sure someone'd fucked it out of you a long time ago.”

Color rises to his cheeks. Sam’s body might be pure, but his thoughts are not. “Do it again,” he insists. “I can take it.”

Brady grins, strokes his cock. “Fine. But keep your mouth opened wide and relax your throat. Don’t resist, just let me fuck it.”

Sam says okay and Brady pushes himself back inside Sam’s wet and willing mouth. He tastes his classmate's cock as it slides down his tongue. Can feel Brady’s precome dripping down the back of his throat. This used to be a recurring fantasy for Sam: Dean, frustrated, using his baby brother’s throat like a silicone masturbator, fucking frantically until he finally explodes. The reason would change every time. Dean’s date would leave him unsatisfied and he’d need his baby brother’s help. Or Sam would boast about what a good cock sucker he was and Dean would make him prove him. Or, his favorite, Dean was tired of waiting for Sam to figure out that Dean liked him too, and so he would just roll over in the middle of the night and fuck Sam’s waiting throat.

“Relax, relax,” Brady pants, above him.

Sam surrenders, lets himself be used the way he dreams with Dean: mouth hanging open, spit flooding over the dam of his lips and draining down the sides of his cheeks. Brady thrusts deeper and deeper into the back of his throat. His grunts become guttural, animal. Like Dean when he fucked. He’d bring his dates over, sometimes, just to make Sam listen. It was supposed to ward Sam off but it just made him hard. Sam would press an ear against the bedroom door with a hand down his jeans as his big brother fucked his latest one-night stand. Sam would close his eyes and imagine it was him. Her voice his, her moans were all his (harder, Dean. faster!) Sam gets aroused now, thinking of Dean fucking his throat, not Brady.

“You’re a good student, Sam,” Brady pants. Shoving himself all the way down Sam's throat, he holds himself there. “Can see why you got that full scholarship, now.”

Sam struggles to breathe, tears springing to his eyes. He felt awful that this was turning him as much as it was. Thinking of his big brother made Sam desperate and hard, cock painfully trapped inside his jeans. Jesus he was so fucked up, on his knees in a frat house, sucking a strangers cock, and still all he could think of was his brother. He deserved worse than this, worse than getting his face fucked in a piss-covered bathroom. He deserved to be punished. He deserved to hurt.

That’s when Brady picks up the heel of his boot and grinds it into Sam's denim-clad cock. Pain runs through his Sam’s body like a current. His eyes bulge. He sees stars. But in the wake of the pain comes a rush of pleasure that's so intense it makes Sam’s body shake, makes him moan around the cock in this mouth. It all happens so fast. Brady steps on his cock and suddenly Sam is coming like a teenager again, hips shaking, creaming his own fucking boxers so hard a wet spot forms in the front of his jeans.

Brady pulls out of his throat and Sam collapses against the bathroom wall. He’s completely clothed but Sam feels naked, exposed. He’s just discovered some other terrible fact about himself and Brady was there to witness it first-hand. Sam turns his face away in shame, sure that Brady is too disgusted with to continue. Instead, Brady grabs his hair and tugs Sam's face towards his cock. 

“Stick your tongue out, yeah,” Brady commands. “I’m gonna come on your face, freshie, and I want you to lap it up.”

Sam shudders like Brady had stepped on him again. Quickly, he obeys, stretching his mouth wide and fluttering his lashes like all the pretty girls do in pron. Brady comes, then, in furious spurts: over his lips, his nose, his hair. When Brady finishes milking himself, Sam slowly licks the come from his lips. It sticks, is thick and tastes like salt, but there's still something about it he likes, the way it made him feel dirty and used—fuck, it's starting to turn him on all over again.

Brady runs his fingers through Sam's hair again, gentle this time, admiring.

"You liked that didn't you? Yes. You liked being used, dirtied. I was right, then, when I guessed you'd be a perfect fit for us, Sam. We need someone like you: a dirty whore to stuff full of cocks, and I think you'd be perfect for the role. What do you say? Do you want to join Sigma Alpha Epsilon as the fraternity comebucket?"

Sam is red from head to foot. He was in love with his brother and had daydreamed of it while being face-fucked by a practical stranger. But Brady didn't seem to care much about that. He saw something in Sam that he liked, something he wanted more of. Brady wasn’t ashamed of him. He didn’t turn away like Dean had, instead, he invited Sam to be part of his family. So Sam licks the come from his lips and says “I’ll do it.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Sam's official bid as Sigma Alpha Epsilon’s comebucket has to be agreed on by the rest of the frat, so Brady invites Sam back the next night. Upon re-entering the greek house, Sam is blindfolded and his hands crudely tied behind his back. Then he’s led into the living room where his future brothers are waiting. A dozen eyes rake hungrily over Sam's body. He can feel them mentally stripping him of his jeans and Stanford hoodie.

Behind him, Brady addresses the room. “Brothers!” he begins. “I bring before you a potential pledge that wishes to dedicate his body to our pleasure. But, first, you must find him worthy. So I have brought him here today for you to inspect. May I present, Sam Winchester.”

At that, Brady pushes his potential pledge into a sea of warm bodies. Two dozen hands are waiting for him: touching, groping, pinching, patting any part of Sam that's within reach. His hair is pulled. His nose is tweaked. His lips are skimmed, tracing his mouth. Sam opens wide for them and is immediately flooded with eager fingers. There are too many to suck, or lick so he just lets them take what they want, forcing his jaw open, gliding over his tongue and pressing at his teeth. 

Every inch of him that is touched is commented on and reviewed: "Like the hair, can pull it like a girl's." "Lips are thin but you could stuff a lot of cocks in there."

About his waist he feels hands crawling up his hoodie, skimming over his muscles and pinching his nipples. Over his jeans they grab Sam’s ass, pull at his cock, caress his balls. Over the clothes isn't enough, though. His jeans are quickly pulled down past his knees. They run his hands over his pubes, between his legs. Foreign hands begin fondling his cock. Tugging, pulling, twisting; Sam fattens at their touch.

"Good response," they note. "Nice tits." "Big dick." 

But they don't intend on using Sam for his dick, so the frat boys bend him over and spread his ass. Sam holds his breath, can feel himself quivering excitedly under their hungry eyes. His ass is flooded with fingers, then, just like his. Brady protests at this. He insists they be gentle with that particular hole (for their future pleasure, Sam suspects, not for his) so each brother takes separate turns prying Sam open and inserting their fingers inside. One brother with two fingers or two brothers with one. They're kind enough to use lubricant, spit, mostly, until someone cracks open a beer and pours it over Sam's ass. Then they're pushing the cheap alcohol inside of him with every new set of hands.

"Tight," they praise. "Thought Brady was going to bring us a used-up whore but this one's fresh for breaking it." Someone else concludes he's a virgin, but it's challenged and suddenly they're asking him: "Have you ever been fucked before, Sam?"

Blindfolded, bent over, with fingers up his ass, it takes Sam a second to respond. "No," he finally answers, disappointment raw in his throat.

There's a murmur of approval. Despite this, another brother asks him: "How do you know you're going to like getting rawed from every hole if you haven't even been fucked before?"

"I will," Sam insists. Although whether he liked it or not hardly mattered, someone as sick as him should be held down and used like a toy.

"Tell them why." Brady chimes in. His voice is distant, standing off to the side somewhere, letting his brothers have their way with his new find. "Why do you want to be our comebucket?"

Sam hangs his head and thinks. He had gone to the frat party last night because Brady asked, and accepted the role because it was offered. Drinking, sucking cock, getting stepped on—that was all a blur. The only thing he remembers acutely is the stinging shame of pretending it was all with Dean. But he can't say that. So instead he says he don't know. A beer cracks open. Sam hears it, then feels it, poured directly on him. He coughs, sputtering and shaking his head as the liquid slips beneath the blindfold mask.

"You must never lie to your brothers, Sam," Brady chastises. "Tell us the truth. Why do you want to become our comebucket?"

Impossible. Sam had spent eighteen years lying to his brother, lying to his father, lying to himself. This was hardly the right time for a suddent heart-to-heart, holding hands and singing kombi ya around the fire place—especially not with Sam's ass in the air and a pair of fingers stuck inside of him. But they're all waiting for him. Sam has to say _something_.

"It's because...because this is what I deserve," he says, struggling. A half-truth; the motive but not the reason. God, he would never say the reason.

"What do you deserve?" Brady presses. "To be fucked?"

"To be punished," Sam corrects.

Another murmur of approval from the brotherhood. But Brady sighs, impatient. "Giving yourself to your brothers is an honor, Sam. Not a punishment. But if punishment is what you want, we can accommodate."

If Brady gestures to his frat Sam is blind to it, but suddenly the fingers are ripped from his ass and two brothers grab him by each arm. They shuffle him towards the back of the living room where he's bent over a couch. Sam feels it's worn cushions against the side of his face as he pressed into them, legs spread apart. Something heavy and wooden is dragged across the pale flesh of his naked ass. It taps against him lightly, makes a hollow _thump_ sound that shoots through the rest of his body.

"This our fraternity paddle," Brady explains. "It has our crest and our greek letters carved into the wood. It's fun little game of ours to see if we can get them carved into our pledge's ass as well."

 _CRACK!_ Pain: vibrant and raw shoots from Sam’s ass straight to his head. Stars burst in front of his blindfolded eyes. His cock wags back and forth between his legs at the force of the hit. He can feel it eagerly dripping between his spread legs. A bright red blush spreads over his ass. Sam can hear the lustful whispers of the fraternity around him. Brady's voice cuts through them all.

"Is that the kind of punishment you wanted?" he asks.

Sam groans into the couch pillow in response.

"Good," Brady concludes. "Each of my brothers will take their turn, and each time you must thank them. Understand? We're going to keep going until you tell us all the truth about why you're here."

 _Crack!_ the second blow lands, harder than the first. "Fuck!" Sam swears, helpless to stop the pain from dissolving into a momentary shudder of pleasure. He could leave at any time he wanted. The ropes around his wrist are badly tied and despite a dozen other boys his age or older, none of them had been trained to kill monsters since they were six months old. Sam could take them, easy.

"Thank your brother, Sam," Brady reminds.

Yes. Sam could leave at any time. And yet, he doesn't. And that's the most humiliating thing of all. “Thank you brother,” Sam concedes. The pain and pleasure of those words the same as the paddle on his ass. 

 _Crack!_ Another hit. Sam groans, then moans: “Thank you brother.”

If only Dean could see him now: tied up, bent over, ass red and raw and cock leaking at every hit. His true self.

 _Crack! "_ Thank you brother."

But Dean had never wanted to acknowledge this side of him. 

 _Crack! "_ Thank you."

Even when Sam was terrible at hiding it.

 _Crack! "_ Thanks."

 

_“Thanks, but I don’t need your help!”_

_Sam elbows his brother away. He can’t stand Dean this close; a_ _rms wrapped around him, hands over his own while holding a gun, aiming it at John’s empty whiskey bottles balanced on a fence out back. It sets Sam’s skin on fire._

_Dean stumbles back, eyes wide with betrayal. He can’t understand why his baby brother has become increasingly volatile. They used to be so close—living together, eating together, rubbing elbows and watching late night reruns of I Love Lucy until Sammy couldn't keep his head up and fell asleep on his shoulder. But as his younger brother has gotten older he’s started to keep Dean at arms-length._

_“Well you haven’t hit anything all day,” Dean defends, gesturing to the pristine bottles. “And Dad said he was gonna test us both when we got back so—”_

_“I’m only messing up because you’re looking over my shoulders!” Sam huffs._

_Dean’s hurt is obvious, but he doesn’t realize this is just as painful for Sam. It’s torture. But his exaggerated show of teenage angst is better than the truth. The dirty, disgusting, terrible truth that Sam keeps locked away in the cage of his aching heart; that he loves his brother, more than a brother should. Sam loves his brother the way those doe-eyed girls in his highschool do; shivering with desire every time Dean walks by, sopping wet in their satin panties. But while they get to worship his brother with their bodies, Sam is stuck watching, and wanting, from afar. Too close, and he’ll betray himself._

_“Monsters are gonna look over your shoulder, Sammy, you can’t be shy,” Dean says, emphasizing his point with a friendly shove. “They’re not gonna wait politely while you get your shit together.”_

_Sam deflects a second shove by blocking his brother’s arm. “Stop it, Dean.”_

_“Stop it, Dean,” his brother mocks._

_Another shove, which Sam tries to block again but this time Dean grabs his wrist. Sam drops the gun and suddenly they’re wrestling. Over what, it isn’t clear but their separate frustrations boil over into pushing, shoving, and elbowing._ _Sam isn’t a kid anymore. They’re matched in strength and thanks to his latest growth spurt Sam is now taller than Dean. He looks down at his older brother and smirks, but Dean’s grit-teeth growl sends a heat wave through Sam’s body. This could be dangerous, Sam thinks, if he loses the upperhand._

_Of course, that’s exactly what he does. Those mile-long legs are his undoing. Dean—a fan of pro-wrestling—sticks one foot behind Sam, pushing at his chest. Sam falls like the giant he is and Dean immediately straddles him, puts his right ankle into a lock. Leaning back, Dean pulls at the captured ankle, straining the muscles in Sam’s leg and back. Using his own brother’s ass as a stool, Dean sits on Sam and holds him in this lock._

_Sam cries out in pain, and something else. His body is electrified. He smells Dean, practically, tastes his sweat. They’ve barely rubbed shoulders in months and now Dean is all over him, on top of him, ass planted on his own. He should be submitting to the pain. Instead, it’s gotten him hard._

_“Say thank you,” Dean demands. He pulls back on Sam’s leg. And yes, fuck, it hurts, but it also grinds his erection into the dirt. Dean lets go, pulls, lets go, pulls. Sam can’t help it: he’s humping the dirt with his own brother’s help!_

_“Dean,” Sam groans. A warning._

_But Dean is oblivious. “Say it,” he repeats. “Say 'thank you, Dean, for trying to help your bitch-face little brother'!"_

  

Sigma Alpha Epsilon is on their second round of paddling Sam's ass. The pain makes him dizzy, and his knees go weak—it’s hard to stand, even with a couch to support him. Behind Sam, the crack of the paddle continues. At some point, the frat boys had started to count.

“Twenty-eight.”

 _Crack!_ “T-thank you brother,” Sam struggles.

“Twenty-nine.”

 _Crack!_ “Thank you...brother.”

His balls are swollen and aching to burst. Every crack of the paddle makes his dick leak.

 

 _Sam can’t stop his moans. His older brother has him pinned, ankle locked, ass in the air. It goes straight to Sam’s head. Straight to his dick and then suddenly Sam_ _is coming, creaming his boxers with his brother riding on top of him. His head goes blank, his cries of pleasure eaten by the dirt._

_“Oh god, Dean. Fuck!”_

 

“Thirty.”

 _Crack!_ “Aaahh!”

The levee breaks. Sam comes while being paddled in front of the Sigma Alpha Epsilon fraternity thirty times. His balls empty out onto the dirty couch cushion beneath him, a flood of come and a flood of shame. The brothers holding him down finally let go and Sam collapses at the base of the couch. His blindfold slips off and he can see, for the first time, a dozen lecherous faces all grinning wide down at him. Sam's cheeks burn at both ends.

"Why do you want to be our fraternity comebucket?" Brady asks, using the paddle to gently lifts Sam's chin. 

Sam closes his eyes. Dean had dismissed the incident as an accident. Sam had been a teen and "you know, hormones," according his brother. He had turned a blind eye to Sam and his desires (before Sam made it known, before Dean recoiled in disgust). But Sam couldn't take it anymore. His love for Dean, as well as the guilt, was eating him up on the inside.

"Because...I want to be seen," Sam finally confesses. "For what I am."

It's enough truth for Brady. Satisfied with his admission and pleased by Sam's public depravity he turns to his brothers, paddle in-hand. "Let's take a vote. All in favor of Sam joining ΣΑΕ as our comebucket, say 'aye'!"

Sam's eyes flutter open again at the affirming cry. The Brotherhood is proud of him for being such an exhibitionist, for being a whore. They paddled their greek letters into him like a brand. He belonged to them now, and they couldn’t wait to have their way.


	3. Chapter 3

 

“You’re recording this?” Sam asks warily.

Brady’s phone hangs in front of his face, a tiny red light blinking in the corner like an evil eye. Sam stares into it, suddenly conscious of his body: naked below the waist, legs spread wide, soft cock and tight hole on full display.

“You wanted to be seen, didn’t you?” Brady asks. He skims his fingers over the inside of Sam’s thigh, eyes glued to his phone as it records the goosebumps rising on Sam’s black and bruised flesh, yet to recover from last night's nasty paddling. “Now your brothers can watch you get fucked.”

Tonight, Sam is going to lose his virginity. The Brotherhood voted to give Brady the honor and now Sam is back here in the greek house on Brady's cheap mattress waiting to be used for the first time. Part of him had thought they'd get straight to the gangbang, but apparently that was being reserved for his final initiation. In the meantime, ΣΑΕ wants to loosen him up. So tonight there's only Brady's cock. That, and his camera zoomed in on Sam's face.

Sam is the star in his own amateur porno, the kind Dean could never get enough of. Sam used to sneak onto his brother's laptop and watch it, the same grainy self-shot smut Dean had just jerked off to. Not because it excited him, but because Sam was jealous. Dean wanted to look at some anonymous brown-haired girls, but Dean didn't want to look at him.

 

_It gets worse. Somehow, after the wrestling incident the clawing, aching, desperation in Sam’s chest gets exponentially worse. Dean flippantly denies that anything bad had happened when they wrestled. He writes the whole thing off like a cute joke: isn’t baby sammy so adorable with his accidental emissions? That’s when Sam realizes his big brother doesn’t even see him like that—as sexual, as someone who could not only want cock, but his own big brother’s, deep inside, splitting him open until he bursts._

_Sam knows he should be happy; he's safe from suspicion! But Sam isn't happy, he's wrecked. Being Dean's little brother is at once a blessing and a curse. Sam knows his big brother better than any of these one-night stands, but at least they get to taste his lips, at least they get to feel Dean deep down inside of them. All Sam can ever do is wonder. As Dean's younger blood-related brother he's nothing but a eunuch to Dean_ _, or worse, a Ken doll with a hairless, plastic lump where genitals should be._

 _And maybe that's how you should see your brother, but that's not what Sam wanted. He wanted Dean to notice him the way he noticed girls _—wanted Dean to see him as a dirty pink-faced slut, if only for a second! Determined to be the kind of whore his brother likes,__ _Sam sneaks onto Dean's laptop when he's out on an ammo run with Dad and starts going through Dean's browser history (which he never bothers to delete). There's plenty of research material! Sam watches hours of Dean's porn, studying the girls. He studies_ _the way they look at the camera_ _—_ _doe-eyed with parted lips_ _—_ _studies the way they suck cock, arching they're spine and begging to get fucked, hoping to absorb whatever come-drenched aura they had that made Dean get hard._

 

Now Sam is just like one of Dean's fantasy girls: lips puckered, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded, on his back with his legs spread, open and inviting. But where was his brother to watch? Sam stares into the blinking light on Brady’s phone. He pictures Dean’s face: tensed, anxious, and horribly turned on. Sam wants to put on a good show, to be the whore he's always wanted Dean to see. Slathering his fingers with lube, Sam reaches down between his legs, teasing circles around his own hole. Sam shivers in delight, makes sure to toss his hair and bite his lip to play it all up.

It was finally his turn to be the object of desire.

“See how excited I am for your cock?” Sam says, mouth open and wet just like the hole he was about to fuck. “My pussy’s throbbing. So ready for it.”

The camera quietly records Sam as he plunges two fingers inside of himself, fluttering eyes, soft moans. “Tight,” he says. “It would be, though. Never had a cock. Never wanted any, unless it was yours.”

It's bullshit when the girls whisper it; they're getting paid for a job, handed some lines before they're tossed on a bed. But with Sam, it's real. It's his first time porn shoot and he means every fucking word. “I used to dream of you fucking me. All the time," he confesses. "On my back, on my knees, in a motel room, in the car—fuck, I wanted you in me wherever we went.”

Sam inserts a third finger, inhales sharply at the pleasure of it stretching him out; the sting, the pain. “That’s why I want the first time to hurt,” Sam moans. “So I know it’s the real thing. Not just another fantasy!"

“Fuck,” Brady growls above him, cock and camera out, jerking himself as he records Sam.

It had worked. Sam was the blushing buxom vixen in his first porno, getting all the boys hard. Not Dean, though. For a few blissful seconds Sam had forgotten he wasn't talking directly to Dean. Reality smacks him in the ass when Brady pulls Sam's fingers out of himself, positioning his cock there instead. Sam stares at it pressed against his own hole like a threat. Oh, right, he was about to get fucked for the first time. And not by Dean. Sam hesitates, clenches. This isn't the same as getting face-fucked or publicly paddled; his virginity isn't something he can take back.

 

_"Hey Sammy, Dad and I are ba-oh fuck."_

_A tremor runs through Sam, an icy hand on the small of his back that makes him shiver and freeze. Dean's beautiful green eyes are blown wide, locked onto Sam's naked body—suddenly too small, too fragile—stretched out on their shared bed. A brunette getting fucked in a school girl's skirt is blaring loudly on Dean's laptop beside him._

_It's not the sexual awakening Sam had anticipated. Caught with his hand on his dick and his ass in the air he didn't exactly feel erotic, or hot; he felt downright fucking embarrassed. "Dean!" he squeals, like a child in his own ears. "Jesus, what the hell, man!"_

_And just like that Sam falls into the trap of 'little brother'. Dean grins, already laughing this whole thing off. "You've got good taste," he says, pointing at his laptop, his porn. "But it's time to wrap it up. Dad's home and he...doesn't want to see you without pants, okay?"_

_Dean shuts the door behind him and Sam sinks into the hole of himself, cock slowly going soft. He would never be the girl that Dean wanted fuck._

 

Sam’s heart will always belong to his brother, it was everything else Dean didn’t want that Sam was giving away. Tonight, inside Sigma Alpha Epsilon, that meant losing his virginity. Laying his head back, Sam closes his eyes and spreads his legs even farther.

“Here it comes,” Brady warns. “Scream real pretty for the camera now.”

Brady enters him with a sharp thrust and Sam does, in fact, scream; a sort of moaning shout. His asshole burns, despite the prep, stretched thin over Brady’s cock as it thrusts in and out of him.

“It hurts,” Sam gasps.

“Just like you wanted.”

The fantasy is gone, replaced by a reality just as fucked up: Brady thrusting deeper into Sam than his fingers could ever go, stretching him out, filling him open. And yes, it felt good to be fucked, good to be used like a cheap blow-up doll for someone else’s pleasure. The pain made it all the better. Sam couldn’t stand it if it was nice. It has to hurt now as much as he’s been hurting for years.

“Fuck, lookit this freshman ass taking my cock,” Brady pants, tilting his phone so it captures the wet sucking noise of Sam's greedy hole gobbling him up. “Tell your brothers how much you like it. Tell them how excited you are to be their fuck toy.”

Brady thrusts the camera into his face. Sam stares into it, drenched with sweat, eyes half-lidded, long hair sticking to his forehead. No more fantasy. His blood brother isn’t behind the camera, but his fraternity brothers were, waiting like hungry wolves for when it was their turn to tear him apart.

Sam welcomes their violence. "I love getting fucked," he pants. "And I want more. Harder. Deeper. Hnngh!"

Brady fucks him, and Sam comes. The orgasm is ripped from his stomach as Brady pumps his hips, fucking furiously just as Sam—just as their new comebucket—demands. Then Brady comes with a feral groan, spilling his warmth into the depths of Sam's guts. Brady's come fills him up, more than Sam's ever been filled before, and for a tiny, agonizing second Sam almost feels sated.

“There it is. You’re fucked-open asshole,” Brady pants. The tip of his cock pops out of Sam like a cork from champagne. Zooming in, Brady records a stream of thick white come pouring out of Sam’s quivering red hole.

Sam pulls his cheeks apart for the camera like a good little whore. He feels Brady’s come trickling, hot and thick, out of his ass and down his spread thighs.

No more fantasy. This was reality; Sam could tell, because it hurt.


	4. Chapter 4

 

When you roll through enough of these small-town motels they all bleed together. Might look different on the outside—one story, two story, lit up with neon, or a sign you’d miss in the dark—but inside, their souls are the same; the same bible tucked inside a formica drawer, the same disgruntled bald man checking you out three in the morning, the same hollowing emptiness no matter how small the town, how friendly the people.

Dean wipes his mouth with a takeaway napkin and pushes his leftovers into the trash. Chinese food; the grease leaks out of the container and into the metal bin, unlined. Sam would have chastised him for that—think of the staff!—but he’s not here now.

Outside, late night traffic passes by his window; lonely headlights in a sea of black. Dean paws absently at a blood stain on his sleeve. A ghoul, took him by surprise, but a graveyard shovel did the job, cut the head clean off. Normally he’d called John and boast, exaggerate a few details in the futile hope his dad would let slip “good job”, but John’s been harder and harder to reach. Contact with him has dwindled to the occasional text which leaves Dean with days, weeks, even a month of time, too much time. Alone. By himself.

Memories of childhood play like a movie screen behind his eyes. It’s hard not to resent them. Dean never had much as a kid. Now he has even less.

A bottle of Jack Daniels accompanies Dean to his motel bed—single, set starkly against the wall by itself. He opens his laptop, a set of directions listed on the screen but not to his next hunt. Stanford is marked on the map in green.

If there's a bright side to any of this, its that John's absence could be the perfect excuse to see Sam again. It’s a tempting thought, one Dean’s had before. He plays with it on lonely nights like this, rolling the possibilities over in his mind. He daydreams about showing up unannounced, late, in the dark, busting into the window of his baby brother’s dorm and scaring the shit out of him just to see that dopey wide-eyed look of his. Ha! Dean smiles—rare—and then banishes the thought.

It was better to keep Sam far, far away from him.

 

_Sammy’s growing up. It hits Dean all of a sudden while he’s dropping his little brother off at school. Sam is slouched in the front seat, legs so coltishly long they barely fit folded beneath the glove compartment with one of Dean’s hand-me-down t-shirts stretched tight over his chest, where it used to hang loose. Dean can remember when Sam was a whiny little brat moaning about the last box of fruit loops, can remember him being so small and tiny shoved into his arms as he ran out of a burning house. It didn’t seem so long ago but now Sam is big, bigger than him, and when he gets out of the car without so much as a "later" Dean is punched with a sudden sense of loss._

_Reaching out of the car he tells Sam hey-just-wait-just-hang-on-a-second and gets a teenage eye roll in return. Who can blame him? Dean is the king of no chick-flick moments and there he is tearing up over his baby brother like some suburban mom with empty nest syndrome._ _It’s a weakness he’s quick to cover up, exchanging sentimentality for a crude joke and peeling out of the school parking lot before Sam can spit something back. His brother’s crumpled expression in the rearview mirror makes Dean feel like shit but Dean knows it’s better than being honest, especially with himself. It's the Winchester way, after all._

_Dean feels that gut-punching loss more and more now. He starts inventing reasons to keep Sam around the house, around him. Most of them involve John. It’s cheap, and Dean knows it but if he says “I’m scared you’re going to leave”, Sam will roll his eyes and walk out the door. If Dean says “dad wants us to practice shooting in the backyard”, though, Sam will show up and do exactly that._

_There's a cost for involving the old man, though. It always puts Sam in the bitchiest mood possible. Dean_ _gets frustrated, feels Sam should be happy and grateful for the time they get to spend together—like it was a limited thing, like there was timer ticking somewhere out of view—even though he lies about the reason they're in backyard to begin with. That frustration builds and something snaps in the summer heat between them. Suddenly Dean is on the ground wrestling the gun away from his brother, heart so heavy with grief it’s like he’s already lost him. The next thing he knows Sam is crying uncle—or just crying, really—and when Dean lets him up the front of Sam’s pants are wet right where his dick is._

_Dean looks down at the dirt on his hands like its his guilt bleeding through._

 

There’s backwash in his whiskey but Dean doesn’t give a fuck, isn’t sharing it with anyone else.

After the wrestling incident Dean became acutely aware of his brother’s body: every bat of his lashes, every toss of his head, every flash of collar bone or stomach from a shirt that was too low, or too short would make Dean feel flustered and red remembering their bodies pressed together in the dirt. 

This is how girls saw his Sammy, he guessed: tanned skin, muscular shoulders, soft lips and bright hazel eyes. Dean assumed it was a big-brother kind of pride, thinking of Sam with other girls. He vividly imagined them kissing his brother shyly, Sam pressing his hips against theirs, helpless and eager when a hand slides down his pants, manicured finger nails palming at Sam's cock, making him flush, squirm. Maybe he'd even protest, but it would be too late he'd already be coming, eyelids fluttering, making his pants sticky and wet just like that day in the dirt.

Dean palms his own cock, just as flustered as he imagines Sam. It doesn't mean anything, of course. 

 

_“Play hookey with me,” Dean blurts out as Sam climbs out of the Impala in front of his fifth highschool that year. It’s been a week since he caught Sam curled up around his laptop, pants down and three fingers in his ass. A solid week of being stonewalled by his own brother. Dean can’t stand it when they’re at odds. Sam has this supernatural power to make Dean feel like the king of the world when he smiles, and like crumpled up trash when he frowns. In desperation, he tries to break the ice._

_“Just this once, c’mon,” Dean tempts. “We’ll get breakfast at that freaky hippie place you like, go to a movie, you know, just hang out. You and me. What do you say?”_

_He invites Sam without any strings, no mention of John. It's a risk. Dean acts casual, like he doesn’t care either way but his stomach flips when Sam grumbles a “yes” and climbs back into the Impala. Dean slams on the gas, then, like Sam might change his mind at any second and brings them to Mama Cher’s Diner with a new (and very tiny) vegan section on their menu that Sam orders from with glee. The food must be pretty damn good because Dean order's the meat lovers special and Sam doesn’t even rag on him about cholesterol, not once._

_After the diner they swing into the local movie theatre with smuggled snacks in their waistbands. They pay to watch one movie, and sneak in to two others. They laugh about the movies all the way home, stopping to grab some takeout and retire on the back porch of their rented home. Dean dips into John's emergency beer stash and they both sit nursing a Bud as the sun sets and the fireflies lazily appear in the backyard. Next door, the neighbors have their fire pit burning, the heady smell of campfire drifting through the air. In the distance, the muted boom of fireworks even though the sky is still pink. The state has just legalized them and the locals are hungry for the start of summer._

_Sam listens to the fireworks with a quiet smile on his face that makes Dean’s stomach flip. This is like the fourth of July they spent together when Sam was younger, setting off a whole box of fireworks in an empty field. Sam had asked with his preteen puppy-dog face and Dean couldn't refuse. Yes, it was like that but different. Different because Dean sees Sam in a way he hadn’t before, notices the pink light of the setting sun across his brother’s face, the way it highlights his eyes, his lips. And because Dean_ _had been satisfied then, after the last explosion painted the sky and Sam’s grin was plastered on his face until they fell asleep together on their shared bed. But tonight he isn’t satisfied. Sam is sitting three feet away and it feels like miles. That loneliness Dean always swallows down rises in throat like bile. He closes the gap between them, hauling his ass across the weathered deck until they’re knees are touching. Sam stiffens, but he doesn’t flinch like when they wrestled for the gun—a small victory in Dean’s book._

_“This is uh, nice, right?” Dean asks, less casual then he’d like. So cool around the girls but tonight he’s all jitters and nerves._

_“I guess,” Sam shrugs._

_“You guess?” Dean elbows his brother playfully, is rewarded by an ear-to-ear grin and a laugh._

_“Jerk,” Sam throws out, a familiar jibe._

_“Bitch,” Dean replies, has said it a hundred times before but this is different, too quiet, doesn’t have any kick to it, like he meant to say something else. Sam catches it too, stares up at him with wide wondering eyes and suddenly an icy stab of fear crawls up Dean’s spine. But why? This was Sam. His Sam. Sammy. The little brother that always made him feel good, at home, when nothing else could. He ignores it, is feeling good and doesn't want it to stop._

_“Thought you’d never talk to me again, after…” Sam trails off with a shrug._

_Sam on their shared bed, cheeks flushed with lust _—Dean remembers, sees_ Sam, here now, dimpled cheeks, the button mole by his nose, all of them cast in deep blue light now that the sun is past the horizon. Impulsively Dean reaches out to touch him, skimming a thumb over his Sam’s cheek. His brother’s eyes go wide, but again, he stays and Dean feels a jolt of adrenaline. _

_“Jackin’ off to some pretty girls? So what,” he dismisses. Dean’s hand slips behind Sam’s head, leaning closer, foreheads touching. Sam is prettier than them anyways, with his soft doe-eyed gaze and glimmering satin lips. They don’t deserve him. And Dean doesn’t want to share. Better to have Sam here, with him, where Dean can look after him, protect him, taste him…_

_“D-Dean,” he hears before their lips touch, mouths seeking each other in the growing dark. Something in Dean’s chest explodes like that box of fireworks on the fourth of July, pleasure, at first, and then alarm._

 

Everything goes to shit after that. Sam runs away for two weeks. Dean feared losing his kid brother and turned out to be his fault all along.

John tears him a new asshole when he gets back and together they track Sam down to an empty trailer outside of town where he’d adopted some dog named Bones and lived off a steady diet of junkfood. Dean waited for Sam to rat him out, to tell John what he did and then watch with glee as their dad slides a knife across Dean’s throat. But Sam says nothing as they all drive back in the Impala in stony silence and Dean swears right then and there he’s going to cure himself for good. Prompted by the fear of God, and John (one and the same in their house), Dean buries himself in booze and girls like it’s a course of doctor-prescribed antibiotics: twice a day, once every twelve hours. A simple infection, he tells himself, caused by teenage boredom or maybe Saturn in retrograde; an easy fix. After all, it was just a kiss.

But after three weeks of alcoholism (and several regretful nights) the sight of Sam still burns Dean like holy water. He wasn't clean, not by a long shot, because when he fucked all those girls to repent for touching Sam he couldn't stop thinking of his baby brother with three fingers buried into his own tight little hole and panting with that pornstar mouth. 

The infection, Dean realized, ran much deeper than he’d thought. Skipping school, wrestling over the gun, the girls Dean dated; had he been wanting this from Sam all along?

When Sam announced he was going to Stanford, Dean was relieved. Sam didn't have to get over what Dean did, but maybe he could move on.

Back in the motel room, in the dark, Dean scrolls through his recent porn history: Brother Breeds My Hole, Step Brother Gets Fucked Before School, Brother Loves To Get Fucked In The Bath. The pretty brunette girls in his porno have suddenly morphed into shaggy-haired twinks. Tonights video of choice is labeled ‘Stanford Freshman’s First Time Fuck’. Dean’s been on a kick for the college shit, ever since he discovered Fraternity X and HazeHim where all the guys have Sam’s same overgrown mop and innocent face. The preview for this vid looks promising: POV with some twink in a Stanford hoodie, so Dean clicks play and whips out his dick.

Without John around there's no point in denying it any longer. Dean is sick, and wrong, but he can't fucking stop himself. 

The video plays. “See how excited I am for your cock? My pussy’s throbbing. So ready for it." It's grainy, and the camera cuts the guy’s face off but oh, the voice: soft, gentle, _familiar_. It crawls up Dean’s spine and under his skin. Within seconds he’s rock hard, leaking.

“F-fuck, Sammy. S-shit.” 

Dean’s jerking off like a preteen again, about to blow his load before they even get to the money shot, but this kid in the video has it all. If Dean didn’t know any better it could almost be….it could almost—

“—used to dream of you fucking me. On my back, on my knees, in a motel room, in the car—fuck, I wanted you in me wherever we went,” the actor cries, three fingers buried inside his own ass.

It’s every sick fantasy Dean’s had, all at once. Sammy begging for it on his knees in their shared motel room, puppy-dog eyes and pornstar voice. Sammy, in the Impala, pulling himself open, gaping wide for Dean to see inside. Sammy asking for it _there_ , Dean, please put it _there,_ inside, please. He doesn’t even make it to the three minute mark, explodes in his hand, coming onto the screen. That's when the video finally comes into focus. Dean can see all of the actor's face now. Except it's not really an actor at all. Dean instantly recognizes, with horror, that the guy on his back with his legs spread, blushing, moaning, and fingering himself open has actually been his baby brother all long.

With his limp cock in hand, Dean watches Sam get fucked for the first time.


	5. Chapter 5

 

The first cock of the night slips between Sam’s beer-soaked lips. He’s already tipsy from what the fraternity has poured down his throat, over his head, flushing his insides with cheap liquor to make him empty and clean for his brothers to use.

Tonight is Sam’s initiation as ΣΑΕ’s comebucket. They’ve spent the last three days preparing him for it. After Brady took his virginity, Sam stretched his asshole even further by wearing an 8-inch vibrating dildo in him wherever he went. It made focusing on classes a little difficult but Sam had still adjusted to the girth of it with alarming ease. He came at least once every class. Embarrassing, at first, when he interrupted his professor with a strangled groan—"Anything to add, Mr. Winchester?"—but then he became a pro: biting his lip, hanging his head, and gripping the table for a few seconds until the orgasm passes. A fresh change of underwear comes in handy too.

After class, Sam returns to the frat where his brothers continue using him. "Study help" is their favorite excuse, each brother inviting Sam into their room where they'll drop trou.  Sam complies eagerly—Torts homework will still be there when he’s done. 

His brothers have even set up a glory hole on the second floor of ΣΑΕ. The middle stall has two openings on either side of it where a pair of ADA hand railings had been removed. There's always cock waiting for him there, sometimes two. Dutifully, Sam will get on his knees and wrap his lips around it, using his hands if there’s a second cock, switching back and forth. When his brother makes a satisfied grunt and comes on his face, Sam licks it from his lips and then swallows.

 _This is the next four years_ , he thinks.

They fuck his hands, his mouth, his feet, and once even his knee while Sam’s leg was folded. His ass, however, is left untouched (besides the dildo lodged inside). They’re saving that for the initiation, and after three days it’s finally time. Sam is stripped, doused in beer, blindfolded, and lead into the same spot where his brothers had first paddled him. They’d showed restraint then, but they wouldn’t now that he’s an official brother. He'd been sworn in just before. ΣΑΕ asked Sam if he pledged his holes would always be open and available, if he pledged to submit to the will of his brothers, and if he pledged to serve their cocks eagerly and loyally. 

Sure, Sam agreed. Why not. This would be his new family, cutting ties with the one Sam had already left behind.

 

_“Dean!” Sam pleads. His face is on fire and he feels like his chest is about to burst. It’s been three days since he kissed Dean on the back porch and his own brother has completely walled him off. Which is probably normal, considering what Sam did. Stupid! He doesn’t know what came over him. Something in his big brother’s eyes, sparkling like he saw Sam for the first time, tricked Sam into thinking maybe, just maybe there was something there. So of course he ruins everything by leaning in for a kiss. Now Dean’s shocked disgust is permanently seared into his brain and Sam’s guilt triples in size._

_But still, he has to say something. “Please. About that night…”_

_“Which night Sammy? There’s a lot of nights.”_

_Denial, of course. Typical Dean. God, Sam could punch his brother right now, and maybe he should. But after what happened Sam doesn’t think he’ll ever touch his brother again._

_“I just. I want to explain.”_

_“Nothing to explain,” Dean insists. “Because nothing happened.”_

_Dean’s head is down, stubbornly assembling peanut butter sandwiches for Sam’s lunch tomorrow. It punches a hole through Sam’s heart. Dean’s disgusted with him and yet he has to keep carrying on, taking care of Sam because he feels he has to, because John’s stopped bothering a long time ago. Does Dean resent him, Sam wonders. Does he wish Sam would just go away?_

_“But, Dean_ _—”_

_“Nothing happened!” Dean says with a snarl. He pounds his fist straight onto the peanut butter-covered bread, which only makes him more irate. “Don’t you understand, Sam? How many times do I have to say it! We’re blood brothers. Family. Something like that—doing something like that is wrong. It’s evil. The same kind of evil that dad goes out and hunts every night. So, no. There’s nothing to talk about. There’s nothing to explain. We just...move on.”_

_When their lips had touched Sam thought all of his deepest, darkest dreams were finally coming true. But when the sun rose it cast his filthiness into the shadows. Of course this was the only sane reaction. Of course his own brother couldn’t feel that way for him. That would be everything Dean had described: sick, evil, wrong. But that’s exactly how he felt about Dean, so what did that make Sam?_

_“I’m…going to go study for a bit at a friend’s house up the street. Don’t worry. I’ll walk.”_

_Dean nods stiffly, furiously wiping peanut butter off his clenched fists. Sam turns, runs upstairs. Grabbing his duffle bag, he packs everything he owns and bolts out the front door. Sam runs away for two weeks—temporarily. When the Stanford acceptance letter comes in, it’s permanent._

 

The first cock of the night slips between Sam’s beer-soaked lips. Eager to please Sam sucks, moans, puts on a show. But his brother's aren't interested in a show, they just want to fuck him. The cock in his mouth suddenly crams the back of his throat. A fist grabbing his hair keeps Sam down, face smashed into his brother’s crotch. Sam is trained for this, though. Despite the carpet digging into his knees, Sam keeps his mouth open and his throat relaxed as his brother begins to face-fuck him. 

But more brothers are waiting! While his mouth is occupied, Sam’s hands are lifted and wrapped around two more cocks. He pumps them like an expert, all those muscles he’d built up over the years training to take down monsters now used on pleasuring his brothers. One, two, three of his brother’s cocks rotate between each hand. He can’t fist them all at once, and they’re getting impatient. Some brothers smear their cocks against his blindfold, against his wet cheeks. Others grab more fistfuls of Sam’s hair and fuck into that.

Finally, the brother using his mouth steps back. Sam pants, throat raw, blindfold slipping before another brother steps up and pushes Sam back down onto his cock so the process can start over again. 

Sam is already hard from this, but no one bothers to touch him.

The fifth brother to use his mouth wants something more than just throat. Tall, thick, blonde—the blindfold has slipped off by now, he’s being used so roughly—this brother steps up and runs his hands over Sam’s chest, pinching his nipples.

“Nice tits,” his brother says. Grabbing Sam’s pecks and pushing them together, his brother slides his cock between them, dragging it up and down Sam’s chest, the swollen tip leaking between his forced cleavage. 

“Hold them like this,” his brother instructs. "Gonna fuck your titties and then come in your mouth.” 

Sam does as he's told, smashing his pecks together, nipples hardening as his brother sticks his cock into the groove. Sam stares at his brother's fat cock thrusting into his face. He opens his mouth for the tip, feels it hammering past his swollen lips and hitting his tongue until his brother finally comes with a satisfied grunt, painting Sam's compressed tits white with come.

It's the first brother to finish on him. To commemorate the event his tit-fucking brother asks for a marker which he then uncaps, deliberately marking Sam’s forehead.

“So we know how many times he’s been used,” his brother explains.

Then he hands it to the next brother in line—me next!—who crams his dick into the back of Sam's throat and continues face-fucking him.

All Sam smells is cock and sharpie as the marks start to pile up. He loses track of how many times they come on him but his face covered in it: hands, hair, tits, before they finally decide it's time to use his ass. Sam is elated. He’s become accustomed to a cock inside of him. Without it, Sam feels empty, hollow; so ready to be filled full to bursting.

“P-please,” he begs, bent over, face pressed into the carpet. 

His brothers line up. Sam's hole quivers with excitement. Besides the beer enema to cleanse him, a fat syringe of lube had been injected inside him of him as well. He was ready to get fucked mercilessly, in fact, had been waiting all night for it. His eagerness is obvious when the first cock dives inside of him.

“F-fuuuuck!” Sam moans. He comes, suddenly, balls tightening as his cock spills out onto the carpet beneath him. His brothers standing around him point and laugh. Sam's first orgasm of the night had been from a single cock inside of him. Jesus, he really was far gone. 

“Good whore,” his brother says, and then begins to mercilessly pound into him. 

Sam cries out in pleasure and pain—hard to tell which—as he’s fucked. He’s embarrassed that he came from just a cock inside of him, but it felt so good! His body craves it, an empty cavernous hole in his gut that wants to be filled with more, and more, and more. What happened to the wide-eyed virgin Brady had found on knees in the ΣΑΕ bathroom? He’d been replaced by a comeguzzling piglsut that was designed to be fucked.

“Your ours now,” his brother pants above him, cock buried in Sam as deep as it will go. Which one was this now? Second? Third in his ass? The tally marks add up but Sam is too far gone to keep count. “We’ve trained your body to suit our needs and now you’ll never want to go another minute without being stuffed full of cock. You’ll feel empty without it, begging your brothers, anyone at all, to stick it in you.”

Sam moans, feels his cock stiffening again.

His brother comes inside of him, swelling Sam’s belly with another surge of ejaculate. Then another comes to take his place.

“We’ll let every new class of freshman fuck you as part of their initiation,” his new brother says. “And then when your holes are broken-in and useless we’ll loan you out to other frats, let them have fun with your sloppy cunt.”

Is it a threat or a promise? Sam can’t tell but the sick part is it turns him on. He fucks back onto his brother’s cock, his own (already hard again) wagging back and forth between his spread legs, leaking with excitement. His brother comes in his ass again and Sam puts a hand on his stomach to feel it stretch. All that come starts to leak from his ass, down his sharpie-marked thighs as this brother pulls out and another dives right in.

Of course his brothers aren’t satisfied using one hole at time. Soon his head is lifted from the come-stained carpet and another cock is shoved down his abused throat. His holes make sloppy-lewd noises as his brothers line up and take turns in his ass and in his mouth. Thick cocks thrust deeper, and harder, drilling holes into his flesh, hollowing him out into an empty vessel that’s pumped full of their come. Sam swallows it all as it’s shot down his throat, emptied deep into his bowels. He’s so fucking pregnant with it he thinks he might burst. But, fuck does he love feeling this goddamn full!

Ass numb, head light, Sam thinks he might break, might even want to. What a delight. No thoughts. No guilt. No shame. Isn’t that what he wanted? Sam peeks up between face-fuckings. The doorway to the frat house is dark, empty. Who was he expecting to be there? Sam’s head is pulled back down onto a waiting cock. There wasn’t much point in hanging on.

“Open up, whore.”

The next brother to use him, pulls at Sam’s hair and shoves a dildo down his throat. Sam protests weakly, tries to back up but the brother fucking his ass pushes him forward again, right onto the cock. It’s big, too big, and the brother using it on him smiles like he knows. Sam gags, once, twice and then suddenly he's vomiting the buckets of come in his stomach onto the floor. 

Exhausted, Sam collapses into his filth, onto his swollen belly. Someone steps on his back and it pours out even faster. Come gushes back out of his fucked-out hole. Thick and warm it douses his thighs, his balls, and the dirty carpet beneath him. It all spills out of him along with the last dregs of his pride. 

Above him, his brother’s laugh. Cracking open a beer, they pour it over his prostrate body.

 _This is the next four years_ , Sam confirms.

“Sam?”

A voice, familiar, gentle. Sam blinks through his fucked-out haze to find Brady crouched in front of him. Oh. Right. Sam had almost forgotten about Brady, the one who'd inducted Sam into his new life to begin with. Where he had he been during all of this? Brady was clothed from head-to-foot holding out a phone towards Sam.

“Who's Dean?”

That name, like a slap to the face. It wakes him up. “What?” he says. He sees the phone in Brady’s hand with 5 missed messages from DEAN. _Dean_. His Dean. His brother. Fuck. Sam’s heart starts beating a million miles a second. Without thinking he reaches for the phone, but Brady quickly pulls it away.

“It must be somebody important”, Brady teases. “Let’s see what he has to say.” Dialing voicemail on Sam’s phone, his blood-brother’s anger spills out beside Sam onto the come-stained carpet:

 _“I saw it. Yeah. You know what I’m talking about. I saw the video Sam and_ _—fuck—what the hell were you thinking?! Is this what you left dad and I for? To star in porn? This is the safe, normal, fucking life that you wanted? If dad ever—no, you know what it’s bad enough that I saw it. And even I can’t believe it. You were supposed to get better, Sam. You weren’t….fuck—”_

The first message ends there. Brady wiggles the phone in his hand with a smirk. “I guess he found the video I posted of you losing your virginity.”

Sam’s eyes blow wide. He’d forgotten all about that thing. “You _what_?!”

Brady smirks at his surprise and continues to the second voicemail. 

_“It’s my fault, I get it. I fucked everything up. But you can’t do this to yourself, Sam. I mean, what is this, revenge? Fuck, I deserve it. I know. Not you though, Sammy. You were supposed to be the better one, make something of yourself. You can’t throw your life away like this kiddo. You deserve better. More than I could ever give you.”_

The second message is wildly different from the first, soft, broken, apologetic where the first was an angry, indignant blaze. None of it makes any sense. Even if Dean did the see the video—oh god, the thought makes Sam sick—what did he have to apologize for?

Brady plays the last three messages in a row:

_“Sam. C’mon. Pick up the phone.”_

_“Sammy? Send a text or something kiddo, so I know your alive. Morse code. Anything. You remember the go word, right? Say Poughkeepsie and I’m there. Or fuck off. Something.”_

_“That's it. I’m on my way.”_

Once a day for the last three days which meant yesterday at 11 am his brother said he was coming. Where the fuck had Sam’s phone been this whole time? 

“So who he is?” Brady presses. “Sounds like a jealous lover...”

Sam averts his gaze. He’s pissed at Brady for posting that video, hiding those messages, but even more than that, Sam is ashamed. Naked and exposed in front of a dozen frat boys, he can’t even summon enough self-righteous fervor to demand his phone back. “No it’s not like that,” Sam explains. “He’s just worried because...well, because he’s my brother. My real brother.”

“Your real brother,” Brady repeats. “I don’t think so, Sam. When you pledged to be our comebucket, you pledged you were ours. Every part of you. Which means  _we’re_ your real brothers now.”

Brady hands the phone to another brother who quickly retreats with it, passing two more brothers who are dragging a dirty mattress between them. The mattress plops down in front of Sam. One of the brothers dragging it lays in the middle, on his back, stroking his cock. 

“And that leads us to the final part of your initiation,” Brady explains. 

At that, four brothers pick Sam up and carry him towards the mattress. Sam tries to resist but he’s too drunk from all of the beer, and too exhausted from being continually fucked to put up much of a fight. They lift up his legs and hoist Sam ass-down onto his brother’s cock in the center of the mattress. Sam moans, despite himself, as the cock slides in easily, pushing out a dozen other brother’s come from his fucked-out ass.

Then Brady unbuckles his pants and crawls onto the mattress between Sam’s spread legs. His asshole is already occupied but Brady lays the head of his cock against Sam’s swollen, puckered hole, and starts to push.

“N-no. Wait,” Sam protests, gasping as his asshole burns with the pressure of two cocks trying to fit inside.

“I’m going to rip your asshole wide open,” Brady grunts, hand on his cock, forcing it in. “I’m going to break you, until he can’t feel anything unless there’s a dozen dicks inside of you. And then no one will want you after that, Sam. Least of all your Dean.”

Brady presses his cockhead into a mass of flesh. Sam’s ass muscles stretch wider and wider. He feels like a rubber band that’s about to break. There’s no room. It won’t fit! But then, miraculously, his asshole swallows a second cock.  Brady’s dick disappears inside of him with a lewd _slurp!_ and the deed is done. Sam stares down between his spread legs: fascination and horror. His asshole is stretched wide over the shaft of two thick cocks! 

“Congratulations, Sam. You’re an official fraternity comebucket.”

Brady and the brother beneath begin to fuck Sam and his asshole gets ripped even wider. His head spins, empties out, completely. Like Brady said, Sam was just a comebucket now. A brainless whore. A fuckdoll. A cock-sucking pigslut. Gone was the trembling, virgin Sam of his teenage years with a hand around his leaking cock as he dreamed of his big brother. Gone was the angry Sam, frustrated and pent up with lust. Gone was the pining Sam who had wasted years of his life chasing someone who didn’t love him back. Gone was the guilt, and the horror, and the shame. In its place Sam welcomes emptiness, welcomes peace, welcomes the second orgasm that's building in him.

This was it. This was the moment he was going to break.

“Hey! Hey who the hell are you? This is a top-secret initiation, you can’t just—”

The crack of knuckle against skin. A thudding body. There’s a commotion from the brothers around him, the murmur of an intruder among their ranks. Then a familial voice cuts through everything.

“Sam? Sammy! Fuck, Sam, where-”

His brother. His blood-brother, the one Sam was trying to forget, the reason Sam let a dozen cocks inside of him, comes barreling through the crowd, pushing naked frat boys out of his way until Dean stands in front of the dirty mattress Sam is getting fucked on. Their eyes meet. Dean’s face goes ghost-white. But Sam can’t hold back his orgasm any longer. With his blood-brother looking on, Sam comes with two fraternity cocks up his ass.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a reminder this fic contains EXTREME adults themes and is also, just for shits and giggles. For fun. It's not meant to be serious, AT ALL so please don't take it as such. And if it's not your cup of tea then move on to the next thing, babe.

 

The campus police probably stops someone from being murdered that night because when Dean walks in on ΣΑΕ balls deep in his little brother, he snaps. Grabbing Brady from the top of the Winchester Sandwich, Dean starts laying into him. It takes 3 right hooks and a heavy boot to Brady's dick before any of the frat bros even realize what's happening. Then they all start piling on to Dean, trying to pull him off, but they're no match for a hunter, especially one that's out for blood. Dean swats at them like their flies and goes right back to Brady.

Sam sits there on a dirty mattress watching it all unfold. _That’s my brother_ , he thinks with a nostalgic stab to his heart as the members of Sigma Alpha Epsilon get their asses handed to them. It feels like a lifetime since Sam walked out the front door of their rented home with John screaming that he could never come back. It’s surreal to have Dean back, let alone on Stanford's campus. Sam is thrilled, scared, frightened, overjoyed, happy, angry, lost: he sits, frozen. Then someone picks up a chair and cracks it over Dean’s back and Sam's instincts finally kick in, the ones where his heart jumps and his stomach sinks and he knows exactly who, and what, matters in that moment.

Sam jumps to his feet, swinging punches at the frat boys he'd just sworn loyalty to an hour before and that's when someone calls security. Minutes later rent-a-cops roll up in their vehicle, red and blue lights: instant Winchester repellent. Without being told, Sam grabs his brother’s hand and follows Dean into the Impala. Together, they fly out of Stanford, adrenaline pumping from the fight, laughing like they were teenagers all over again.

“Did you see that guy’s face when I busted in like ‘uh, w-w-what are you doing here!’” Dean whoops.

Sam nods, grins from ear-to-ear. “They had no idea what hit them. They just stood there staring!"

It feels just like old times, except they aren't. As the miles wear on, reality sinks in like the blood on Dean’s knuckles. Their levity fades, laughter replaced by sullen silence. In the backseat, Sam is suddenly aware of his naked, come-covered body. He’d managed to grab a sheet on the way out but it isn’t enough to hide his dismay. Dean had just seen him being utterly, wretchedly, disgustingly debauched—and loving it. Not to mention the video Brady uploaded of Sam losing his virginity. God, his brother must be boiling with disgust. The very idea makes Sam sick. His heart beats so fast that when Dean finally pulls into the lot of a dilapidated 8 motel just outside of Paulo Alto he jumps out of the car before Dean can even put it into park. Of course Sam makes it about five feet before a gust of him wind reminds him that he has no clothes, and no money. He freezes, bare feet on the tarmac. Frustration and shame are a storm inside of him. He wills himself not to cry but nearly breaks when his brother’s hand lands gently on his shoulder.

“Hey."

Sam stiffens, wraps the sheet around him as tight as it will go. He doesn't know what to say, wishes this would all just stop.

His brother sighs, takes off his jacket and drapes it over Sam's shoulders. It smells of him: gunpowder and dried blood, whiskey and anxious late nights. "Let's get back in the car," Dean says and of course Sam follows, he always will. 

To his surprise, Dean joins him in the backseat of the Impala, sliding across the vinyl seats until their knees touch. Was this too close? Was it intentional? Did it mean something?  Sam's head spins with the possibilities. All the same anxieties of his youth come rushing back. Except he knows different now. Dean doesn't love him back, and Sam is tired of hoping.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he says icily. “I was in the middle of something.”

Dean frowns. Their knees no longer touch. "Yeah I could tell," he huffs. "That why you left us, Sam? So you could get passed around like a bucket of hot wings on game day?"

“Fuck you,” Sam spits back. “My life isn’t your business anymore.”

“It is when it’s plastered all over the goddamn internet!” 

The blow lands just as intended. Sam shrinks into himself, face crumpled. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” he mutters, a poor excuse.

“Then you don’t answer the phone for three days,” Dean continues. “Not even a text. What am I supposed to think? Anything could get you out here, Sam. Ghosts, vampires, werewolves, _witches_.”

“Witches?” Sam repeats, incredulous that his brother would bring up part of their lives at a moment like this. “Is that what you thought, Dean, that a _witch_ put me a hex on me?"

"Just saying, as an example," Dean tries to explain, but Sam barrels ahead with his indignation. 

"Did a witch hex me into a joining frat, Dean? Did she hex me into coming when I got paddled in front of them? Did she make me beg for their cocks? Did she make me love every second of it?!"

It's Sam’s turn now, and he hits below the belt. Dean’s face turns white.

"Maybe she's been cursing me ever since I was born," Sam continues; petty, spiteful, heart splitting in two. “Maybe she made apply to Stanford. Maybe she followed me around from town to town whispering dirty, desperate things about my own brother in my ear. Until I couldn't even look at you without getting hard. Maybe she’s the one that made my heart ache every time you smiled, made me jealous when it was at a girl instead of me. Maybe she was to blame along all along, you know, for falling in love with you."

Sam can’t his tears back any longer. Hanging his head, he struggles to continue. “There’s no witch to blame, Dean. No voodoo. Nothing supernatural. I’m just...fucked up, okay? I always have been, as long as I can remember.”

It's the secret, taboo thing Dean had never wanted to talk about, never wanted to hear. But Sam has said it. He doesn't know what to expect from Dean. Anger, maybe. Betrayal. Certainly not the broken face and shining eyes in front of him now.

“You’re not the one to blame, Sam. I am," Dean insists. "I’m your big brother. I’m the one that should know better. I didn't even realize what I wanted and then when I did...I couldn't stop. I can’t stop, Sam. Don’t you understand? It was safer to let you go."

Dean’s lips glisten in the neon light of the motel sign outside. Something feels different, than before.

“I thought you hated me,” Sam says. “I thought you couldn’t wait to get rid of me.”

“You deserved better," Dean explains. "Better than an older brother who couldn’t stop thinking about your fluttering eyes, your puckered lips, your legs wrapped around my waist. No. You deserved something normal, Sammy. It’s what you always wanted.”

“You don’t know what I’ve always wanted,” Sam chokes.

Had Dean really thought of him the same way Sam did; too twisted up in his own guilt and shame to recognize it? Had then been suffering separately this whole time, mistaking the other's intention? It's hard to believe, but Sam suddenly wants to. He really, really wants to. Dean lingers in front of him as if he were waiting for permission, but Sam doesn't know how to ask for what he wants. “Dean” he says, both a plea and an apology at once. It's not much, but it's enough. Dean leans in and suddenly they’re kissing again like it’s one year ago; dry summer heat on their skin and cheap beer on their lips. They kiss like they can turn back time, erasing all of the pain and misunderstanding. But it's not that easy. When Dean kisses him in the parking lot of the motel all Sam tastes is the cock and come of ΣΑΕ. It stings, like salt applied to a wound. Sam breaks the kiss, turning his head so he can’t see the expression on his brother’s face.

“Maybe I can...clean up a bit, first?” he suggests. 

Dean hesitates and Sam worries he's killed this thing between before it ever starts. But then, Dean agrees. He peels himself off his brother and it takes everything within Sam not to pull him back.

 

~~~~

 

There’s not enough soap to wash off Sam’s shame. He cleans the frat’s come off his face, his hair, borrows some toothpaste from Dean to get the taste of his mouth, but he can't get it all out of his ass! Sam is afraid to dig it out, afraid of the damage that's been done. Brady said his asshole was broken, said Sam couldn’t feel anything unless there were multiple dicks inside of him. Sam doesn't like the implication, doesn't want to be ruined for Dean. At the same time, an asshole filled other people's come could ruin the mood. So Sam finally spreads his legs and digs two fingers into his ass.

The come pours out of him, what feels like a fucking gallon of the stuff trickling between his legs and washing down the drain. Sam digs into himself, rinse and repeats. He’s up to four fingers before he feels any resistance. Fuck. Was this because he'd stretched his hole out with that dildo for half a week? Because he'd been railed so hard? Because there'd been two cocks inside of him at the same time? Sam couldn't say for sure but after thirty minutes of cleaning his holes, the come in his stomach had been replaced by dread.

Dean must see it on his face. As soon as Sam steps out of the bathroom, Dean is running his hands through his brother’s wet hair with a worried “hey”.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, but Dean refuses to accept. 

“I did the same thing, Sam. I buried myself in every pretty smile I could find hoping she’d be the one to mop up all those thoughts in my head. It never worked, but I kept doing it. I'm personally responsible for half the condom sales in all fifty states!”

Sam laughs even though he hates to think about Dean with anyone else.

“It doesn’t mean anything if you don’t want it to," his brother says.

“This is different,” Sam dissents. “They changed me, Dean. I'm...broken.”

Dean’s face tightens. Sam can tell his brother wants blood, wants to go back to Stanford and finish the job he started. But this wasn’t about the fraternity right now, this was about them. “Broken, how?” he asks.

Sam’s face turns red. There's no way to explain it, only show. Tentatively, he turns around and drops the towel from his waist, bends over and spreads his cheeks to show Dean his gaping hole; not exactly the first-time fantasy he'd had in mind when he was young.

“Oh,” is all Dean says and it confirms all of Sam’s deepest fears. He scrambles for his towel again but Dean protests. “No. Wait. Hey—hang on!”

Dean catches Sam's wrist and his brother stills, hanging his head like he's been defeated. 

“That video you saw,” Sam says. “I said you weren’t supposed to see it but at the same time, everything I said...I was thinking of you, Dean. I really did want you to be my first time.”

“You’re not broken," his brother insists. "You’re a Winchester. And Winchesters don’t lick our wounds, we patch them up.”

With that, Dean takes his hand and leads him to the queen-size bed in the center of the room. “Sit,” he commands, before digging into his duffel bag beside the mattress. “Remember when that poltergeist threw you into that rusty farm equipment and I had to stitch you up in the backseat while dad gunned it across state lines?” 

Sam winces at the memory, touching his shoulder. “Yeah."

Dean reveals a white tin box with a red first aid cross on the front of it. “Same idea."

Sam is still lost until his brother takes out a pack of sutures. Inside there's a curved needles and sanitized nylon thread. Sam's stomach sinks with the realization. “Wait, Dean,” he protests.

“You want to be a virgin again, I can do that. Maybe not the real thing but it can _feel_ like that. Then you can say all those things in the video, but to me this time. Like you wanted. Like you were supposed to.”

Despite his fear, there’s a shiver of arousal down Sam’s spine. It's insane that they're talking about stitching up his asshole, but it's just as insane that they both want to fuck. Sam wants his brother inside of him, wants it to feel good for both of them, and if they'd gone this far there was no point in stopping now. So Sam nods his consent. Yes, he wants Dean to make his hole tight again.

Sam rolls onto his stomach, Dean ripping open a pre-threaded suture pack behind him. Sam doesn’t want to see the needle, doesn't want to see it sewing his ass closed. He feels guilty having let anybody else but Dean touch him. But if Dean has resentment he doesn't say. He works quickly behind Sam, sterilizing the needle with a dash of whiskey (always on hand, as is the Winchester way) and then deftly sliding it under his brother's skin.

Sam grits his teeth. Yeah, it hurts, but it only takes a moment. It’s over in a flash and then there’s nothing but this gentle burn where he knows his asshole has been stitched together. Sam’s cock fattens at the thought. Here was Dean making sure his brother’s fuckhole was virgin-tight and they hadn’t even properly kissed yet. 

Sam turns over onto his back when Dean is done. He looks down at his brother who is still on his knees at the edge of the bed. Dean asks him to lift his legs and hold them close to his chest until Sam lying spread eagle just like he had while Brady filmed him.

“Gonna open you up nice and slow now, sweetheart,” Dean explains. “Gotta take my time with this virgin hole of yours.” 

Then Dean spreads his brother's ass wide and dives right in. Sam gasps as Dean's lips press against him, tongue stuttering over the fresh sutures. He still aches from the needle but there's nothing but pleasure in Dean’s mouth, kissing his hole tenderly, eagerly, sucking and licking at the part of him that was still gaping open, still desperate for cock. Sam shudders when Dean’s tongue slips inside of him. He can feel it! Can feel Dean’s tongue sliding into his freshly scrubbed ass. Oh. God. Fuck. 

Dean leans back from Sam's spread legs with satisfied smirk. "You've got a slutty pussy there, Sammy. Half the size but still ready to go? Here, you’re ready for something more.” From the duffle bag he removes a bottle of lube. Drizzling some on his hand, Dean takes his index finger and slowly inserts it inside of his brother. 

Sam lays his head back and moans. It was intense. Fuck. How tight did Dean make him?

“Do you remember what you said in the video?” Dean asks. “When you started fingering yourself.”

Sam bites his lip, thinks back as Dean wriggles wickedly inside of him. “I said I was tight. Because I’d never had cock before. A-and I never wanted any. Not unless it was yours.”

“Whose?” Dean presses.

“Yours,” Sam repeats. “My big brother’s cock. My _blood_ brother’s cock!” 

Dean hums with approval and suddenly one finger becomes two. Sam grips the sheet as he feels the pressure in his ass increase. Jesus. It really was like the first time.

“Did you think about fucking me?” Dean asks, and Sam moans a yes. “How?” 

“Like this,” Sam confesses. “On my back in one of those rundown motels, or inside of me when we shared the same bed and dad was passed out on the couch. I wanted to suck you off while you drove Baby and then bend over and get fucked over her hood. I wanted it behind the bleachers at school, where someone could see and know that I belonged to you. Quickies at rest stops, behind bars. Anywhere I could have you. Fuck. I’ve wanted it for so long.”

“And you’re gonna get it, babe,” Dean promises. “But the question is: how much do you want it to hurt?”

Three fingers now. The pressure turns into pain as Sam's hole stretches against the last suture.

“That’s what you said, right? In the video. That you wanted it to hurt so you knew that it was real.”

How many times has Dean watched that video, exactly? Sam had assumed his brother was too outraged to finish, but maybe not. “Yeah,” he concedes. “I do. First times are always supposed to hurt.”

Dean gives a feral growl and suddenly he’s standing and unbuckling his pants. Sam feels his asshole clench in anticipation when his brother whips out his cock—long and fat with a glistening head that was already leaking eagerly; everything he had ever dreamed. Dean grins, smug, before leaning in between Sam's legs and pressing their lips together. They kiss on a cheap motel bed for the first time without fear or remorse, guilt fading away into the dark. Dean kisses him and Sam tastes his own asshole, lapping at it hungrily from his blood-brother’s mouth. Dean growls into their kiss, possessive, and Sam moans as Dean slides his cock alongside his own.

“Dee,” the childish part of Sam begs, the teenager from his past that’s been waiting for this moment for a lifetime.

Dean grunts in reply. He's just as eager. Sitting up Dean grabs his cock and positions it against Sam’s freshly tightened hole. Sam grips the sheets in anticipation, bites his lip, nods. Then Dean pushes himself inside.

“Aaaaahhh!” It feels like being ripped open, it’s so tight. 

“That’s only the head,” Dean grunts. With another thrust he's finally inside, filling up Sam’s greedy cock-starved hole.  

“Hnngh. Fuck.” Sam whimpers. He wraps his legs around Dean’s waist as his brother kisses him again. He was worried he wouldn't be able to feel Dean and now it's like he can feel every vein. “How many stitches did give me?!”

“Enough,” Dean laughs, gives an experimental thrust that sends Sam’s head spinning. “Wanted to make sure you remember this. Wanted to make sure you knew whatever those fucks did to you, whatever they said: none of it matters. Cause you belong to me now, don’t you Sammy? You belong to your big brother.”

“I’ve always belonged to you,” Sam promises. And it's true. He's belonged to Dean ever since he ran out of a burning house in Kansas with his baby brother bundled in his arms. It took them awhile to realize what to what extent they belonged, and even longer to accept it. But the journey had been worth it just to get here, in each other's arms, even if they'd both been bruised and and beaten in the process.

This is the true meaning of Brotherhood, Sam determines. _Their_ Brotherhood. It might be sick and twisted to some, but to Sam and Dean it's all they've ever known, all they've ever had. So as Dean buries his cock into Sam's sewn-up hole, both brothers pledge every part of themselves to the other—Sam his broken ass, Dean his mangled heart. They create a Brotherhood of their own; one that supersedes whatever half-baked promises Sam made out of desperation in Stanford.

There's no elaborate ceremonies in their Brotherhood, and the initiation is simple: Dean inside of Sam, Sam wrapped around Dean.

“Fuck, Sammy. I'm close, god I'm so close."

"Do it, Dean. Fucking come in me. I want it—shit, fill me up!"

"Hngh. That's right baby, gonna fill you full. Knock you up. Make you all mine."

"D-Dean!"

"Fuck!"

When Dean comes inside his baby brother it finalizes the initiation. It swells Sam's belly again, and washes away the stench of ΣΑΕ, all the girls Dean had ever left behind. There was no room for anyone else, there never had been.

Outside, the neon lights of the motel change from vacancy, to no vacancy as another couple checks into the room beside them. Dean smiles in his afterglow. Looking to Sam he traces the red neon light down his baby brother’s naked body, mentally marking every piece of it that now belonged to him: lips, tits, and his quivering come-filled ass. Then he gets struck by a wicked idea.

"You know," he says with a smirk. "I could fuck you till you get loose again and then just sew you back up. Think about it, Sam. Every time could be your first. Tight and painful. What do you say?"

Sam huffs and rolls over with an exhausted moan.

Dean laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an indulgent fic born of my love for slut!sam and honestly I wasn't sure if anybody would like it but everyone whose commented along the way has been amazing and fantastic. So thank you, you've made writing/updating this fic just, a lot of fun ✌️❤️


End file.
